


I'm perfect for you

by coffeelatte



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Famous Harry, Famous Louis, Fluff, Louis is a rockstar, M/M, harry's a sweet little pop boybander
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-09
Updated: 2016-04-09
Packaged: 2018-06-01 04:36:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6501055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeelatte/pseuds/coffeelatte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis Tomlinson, twenty three year old rock star with three platinum certified albums, has gotten the tabloid reputation of a "raging savage animal whose unpredictable wildchild acts borders between magnetic and alarming." Management says that to salvage his reputation, he has to engage in a fake relationship to show the public that he was 'stable' and 'committed' - and it'll be a bigger plus, management says, that he'll be dating Harry Styles: twenty year old pop-star whose chart-topping boyband recently won the X-Factor, whose reputation is pristine and the sweetheart darling of the nation.</p><p>Right. Okay. Yeah. Sure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm perfect for you

**Author's Note:**

> My first foray into the 1D / HL fandom, but I hope you all treat me well! Hahaha, an extremely short first chapter, just to get feel for how the rest of this fic will play out. :) Kudos and comments are always loved and treasured.

Despite what popular public opinion may dictate, Louis Tomlinson was not, in fact, a “raging savage animal whose unpredictable wildchild acts borders between magnetic and alarming.” _Jesus_ , he’s a rock star not a goddamn lawless heathen, and he doesn’t even understand when his management company had gone from saying “you need to play up the sex-drugs-and-rock-n’-roll image, it’ll sell albums” to “you need to tone it down or your bad image is going to bring your album sales down.”

Excuse him, but they were the ones who told him to spend his nights at clubs getting disastrously wasted for the paps to see, instead of his previous habits of ‘stay in and read a good book in bed.’ And yeah, his concerts tend to get a little out of hand, but he’s a rock musician, for God’s sakes – what do they fucking think is going to happen? Just because he writes songs (platinum-selling album songs, mind you) about heroine and alcoholism and breaking laws doesn’t mean he endorses those things, and it certainly does not mean that he partakes in any of those activities.

They’d told him, at the beginning of it all, that- that in exchange for him being out, he’d have to listen to their instructions on the rest of his image. That in order to hopefully offset the homosexuality, they’d really market the whole ‘bad boy’ persona, that it would be his biggest bet at success.

He’d listened. He befriended the right people and played the right moves, punched a pap or two in the face (though he’d quite enjoyed that bit), threw a few tantrums and ‘strategically’ skipped a few smaller concerts.

The fans ate it up. Most don’t seem to even care that he’s gay, too charmed by the picture perfect bad boy prince they never got to date in their teens. His three albums to date have all gone platinum, in conjunction with the sold out tours and ‘Louis Tomlinson’ merchandise flying off the store shelves. In fact, one might venture to say that he’s the primary bad boy figure of the decade.

Until recently, when a scathing article from a forty-something acclaimed critic for a big time magazine wrote something along the lines of ‘we must stop our children and the young generation from listening to Louis Tomlinson because he is the devil incarnate and encourages chaos.’ And then, management had promptly pulled him for an executive meeting on how to ‘remediate’ the situation.

So excuse him if he’s a bit put out and quite a lot irked, that this meeting is happening at all.

“Play nice,” George, his manager, murmurs quietly from beside him.

Louis’ lips tighten as he slinks lower in his seat. He’s wearing an artistically torn white tee shirt and even rattier pair of black jeans, the ink trailing up and down his arms on full display; all around him are sharply contrasting executives, all dressed in smart suits and polished shoes. He shakes his leg, a quick and constant up and down movement, an anxious quirk he never got rid of even at age twenty three.

“So, Louis,” one of the execs – Eleanor, he remembers – begins to speak. He actually likes Eleanor. She’s sweet, and much younger than most of the others; she doesn’t let this hold her back, and instead, works harder and better than most of the others he’s seen. “We’ve been deliberating for weeks, and we think that we have a solution to your problem,” she says carefully, as though she were considering each word before she said it. As though there’s something apprehensive coming up that he might object to.

“My problem,” Louis parrots back at her. His problem. As if he’s the one who caused this mess; as if he was the one who acted out because he actually was a wild child, as if he really were some satanic reincarnation here to lead the younger generation of the country astray, as if the company was the one who was here to try to help him clean up after his own mess.

_His problem._

Eleanor winces a little, but covers it up quickly with a gentle smile. “You still have a lot of concerts left on this tour-“ Fourteen, he thinks. “-but we’ve already had some ticket cancellations.”

The thing is, that’s both worrying and reassuring at the same time. His demographic is rather fifty fifty – the young tweens who need their parents to buy their tickets to his show, and the older youths, the college kids and twenty somethings who don’t need to rely on authority figures to fund their entertainment. On one hand, tweens aren’t his entire fanbase – but on the other, they’re no small part, either.

“It’s not enough to be severe, but we’re worried that if this situation doesn’t get itself under control-“ This situation, she says: oh, what, like the string of bad press he seems to be having? The article after article and photo after photo of ‘Louis Tomlinson on a bender’ thing? “-that things could get irreparably worse.”

“You understand, Louis, that something must be done – quickly,” another executive (Mark: an older guy, Louis’ never been a terrible fan, but he wasn’t too bad either) says. “We’ve got to find a way to turn public opinion of you around. Make it less severe.”

Jesus, Louis thinks. Jesus fucking Jesus Christ on a stick. George smiles widely enough for the both of them. “Yes, of course,” he says, and Louis thinks, fuck you George.

“So we thought that an arrangement might help.”

Louis tenses. “What kind of arrangement.” All of his questions are coming out like sentences – chopped, clipped, more statements than anything that leaves room for a response.

It’s Eleanor who picks up the conversation, as delicately as she always does: “We thought that…if you were to engage in a mutually benefitting agreement with another party wherein you two appeared to the public as being in a relationship, it could really improve your image a lot.”

It takes him approximately three minutes to sort through the businesslike jargon Eleanor’s just spit at him. The two seconds following the realization lends itself to the incredulous: “You mean a fake relationship? You want me to fake date someone?”

It happens. It’s not as unrealistic or rare as people seem to think it is, and he’s aware of at least two relationships at the moment that are more fiction than fact. But- really?

He’s a homosexual rock star. One would think that he’s too much of a rare type to really engage in something as cliché as a fake relationship.

“Now, Louis,” this time it’s Mark again, “It wouldn’t be forever. Just until you got your image back up. You don’t have to actually date them for real, either, just make some strategic appearances at some strategic locations.”

“It’s honestly the best solution at the moment,” Eleanor says with a smile as though they were discussing the fucking nice weather instead of H _ello Louis please go ahead and get yourself a fake relationship_. “For one, relationships imply stability and commitment, which would do wonders for your specific situation. And for another, the person himself would both benefit from the relationship and be a boost to your reputation.”

The person himself. Christ. They already have someone picked out.

And Louis hadn’t even yet gotten to the point of thinking about who it would be, specifically. He’s still stuck on processing ‘fake relationship’ as a term in his head.

“Who the fu-“

“You already have someone in mind?” George neatly cuts off Louis’ words, and earns himself a hard glare for that.

“Yes,” Eleanor perks, and slides forward a dark, unlabeled folder.

Louis doesn’t want to touch it. Doesn’t even want to open it.

It’s George who goes ahead to flip it open.

“Jesus,” Louis blurts. “You can’t be serious.”

Smiling sunnily from a glossy photo is _Harry Styles_ – twenty year old media sweetheart, who’s a part of a four-member boyband that’s just debuted three months ago, signed to the same management company as his own.

Three months, and they’re already alarmingly popular, with two number one chart topping singles and enough screaming girls to kill a man from deafness. They won some reality show or another – some music show that gives the winners a record deal, after they’ve already gotten the exposure the show gives them by chronicling the contestants throughout their journey to the winner’s circle.

It’s been enough, apparently, to capture the hearts of swooning fourteen year olds across the nation.

Really?

Sickening sweet sugar pop star Harry fucking Styles?

“He’s not even gay,” Louis finally explodes, voice much louder than he’d been allowing himself.

Eleanor smiles primly back. “Actually, it is. And he’s made it very clear that he’d like to come out.”

She folds her hands on the table. “So we figured: if he comes out on our terms, engaged in a relationship with an already established celebrity whose popularity could do his band a great deal of good in getting them in the spotlight more, great. And if his extra clean reputation and good graces with the media helps out your case? Excellent.”

She smiles her executive smile at him – the one that he recognizes as the smile that tells him that really, he has about zero say in the decision.

Louis’ eyes, if at all possible, grow darker and angrier.

\---

See, Harry’s never even wanted to be famous. Okay, that’s a lie. He’d hoped.

But at nineteen, when his best friend had called and said let’s audition for the X Factor, he’d initially laughed. The closest he’d ever come to being a singer was in the shower, and yeah, that’d be amazing, that’d be the dream, but that’s actually quite all it was: a dream.

But when they pass the auditions, it’s a little breathtaking. And when he gets put in a group on the show, it’s a little unbelievable.

When they win, it’s exhilarating.

Now? Now, he’s certified on twitter and working on releasing their third single after the first two topped the charts, and sitting in a conference room nervously tapping his fingers on the table as he waits for the verdict from his management company about wanting to come out.

Christ.

It’s terrifying and unreal, is what it is.

He’d expressed to them, about three weeks back, that he wanted to come out. Because they’d been talking long term, about five album contracts and tour dates and even merchandise endorsements, about how _big_ they were going to get, and Harry had nervously spilled _I’m gay and I’d like it to not be a secret._

They’d paused, pursed their lips, then swept away to ‘see what they could do.’

He’s still trying to come to terms with the fact that he’s no longer a literature major in college and they’re discussing media strategies to tell the public _he’s gay_ , as though more people than just his parents actually give a shit about his sexual orientation.

Jesus.

Then a week ago they propose a solution to him – and that solution happens to be a fake relationship with the Louis Tomlinson, and it had literally taken everything he had in him to not faint right then and there.

Louis. Tomlinson. Harry’s not even the biggest fan of him, but nevertheless it’s like being offered to be in a fake relationship with David Beckham. Louis Tomlinson is the most infamous sex idol of the country, whose tours sell out so fast that anxious teenagers bite through their nails sitting by the computer trying to nab a ticket; he’s gay, too, but that’s always been more of a side fact than anything prominent, no doubt thanks to the expert play by their management company.

“Harry?”

Harry’s head whips to the door. He hadn’t even noticed the door being opened, much less Eleanor Calder (he’s terrified of her, just a bit; he’s heard the rumors about her frightening competence) walking through the door.

“Yes?” he squeaks.

“Louis is available to meet you right now, if that’s alright with you?”

Harry promptly drops his phone onto the floor with a audible thump.

\---

Louis isn’t even looking at him when Harry first walks through the door. The room’s been vacated save for Louis and George, his manager, and when Harry walks in the rock star is thoroughly concentrating on his phone, a displeased furrow to his brow.

It’s George who looks up and acknowledges Harry with an encouraging smile. He gets up to offer Harry a hand. “Hi, Harry – great to meet you at last,” he says, and Harry swallows down the hysterical laugh threatening to bubble up his throat.

He’s still trying to get over the fact that he’s in the same room as Louis Tomlinson – who, by the way, looks even more attractive in person than the photos. And that’s saying something, since Harry’s thought that he was perhaps the most attractive person he’s ever seen from the photos alone.

“Um, hi. It’s nice to meet you, too,” he replies.

His eyes dart nervously to Louis, who’s head is still firmly down and eyes trained on his phone.

“Uh-“

George spares an exasperated glance at his charge before turning back to offer Harry a roll of his eyes and a wry quirk of his lips. ‘Sorry,’ he mouths. Harry has to swallow the hysterical laugh again. “I’ll leave you two to introduce yourselves. Louis, behave,” he says sternly before exiting the door, quicker than Harry’s able to latch onto and beg not to.

Complete silence falls on the room as soon as the door closes.

Harry stands stone still, eyes wide and heart pounding. God, he wishes he’d dressed better today – he hadn’t known that they were going to meet today.

Louis Tomlinson continues to act as though he’s completely unaware that Harry is there.

Three minutes later, Harry swallows. “Um.”

And finally, finally, Louis looks up at him, and Harry almost has a heart attack from how blue his eyes are.

His mouth is set in a firmly displeased down turn, three days’ scruff visible on his face and hair haphazardly tousled. He’s wearing nothing but a tee and jeans and vans, and his hand is still clutched around his phone.

And he is so, so attractive it makes something in Harry physically ache.

“I-“

“Are those shoes fucking gold?” is the first words out of Louis Tomlinson’s mouth, brows raised and eyes trained on Harry’s feet.

It takes a couple of minutes for Harry to process that yes, Louis Tomlinson is indeed speaking to little old me. “Um.”

“Jesus,” Louis says. “Fucking gold boots.”

“Uh.”

“And you agreed to this whole bullshit mess?”

“I.”

“Jesus, kid, you’re wearing gold boots and you agreed to fake date me?”

“…Um. I-“

This time, Louis finally raises his gaze to firmly meet Harry’s. His brows furrow – quick, like all his other movements; Louis Tomlinson is like a lightning bolt, Harry idly thinks – as he sets his phone down on the table. “You okay? Can you talk?” he asks, and it’s not unkind, but there’s no small amount of incredulous confusion in his voice.

“Yes,” Harry blurts. “I can talk.”

There’s a twitch on Louis Tomlinson’s lips, like he’s trying to repress a laugh. “Oh yeah? That’s good.”

Harry flushes a deep red, and he hopes that the ground will just open up and swallow him whole. Louis Tomlinson is here before his eyes, and the first thing he ever says to him is _‘I can talk.’_ God, the boys would have a kick out of this.

In the momentary silence, Louis’ taken the chance to stand up and grab his phone and dust off his shirt. “Right, well. I’ve got some shit to take care of, but. I guess this is happening.” There’s that displeased expression again, and oh, _oh_ , Louis Tomlinson doesn’t want to do this, Harry realizes.

It has a little sharp pang stinging through his stomach.

“I’ll see you around, I guess. Let’s try our best to deal with this as fast as we can, yeah?” He gives a little lazy salute and saunters out the door without so much of a backwards glance.

Deal. _Deal with this._ This.

This terrible, awful inconvenience that he doesn’t want to do and yet is forced to do because of their management company.

Oh.

Well. Harry, still standing numbly, bites his lower lip as his stomach drops a little bit more. Well.


End file.
